


Double-Edged

by Iverna



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:09:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8290367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iverna/pseuds/Iverna
Summary: AU where Zelena got a hold of the dagger in Camelot. Separated from her family, Emma can do nothing except whatever Zelena commands – and she can’t remember what she’s already been made to do. She can't remember what she did to the people she loves.





	

The dagger’s hold on her is a subtle thing, like the background hum of traffic, a constant but unnoticed presence.

And just like traffic, when it comes roaring to the forefront, it is an unstoppable force. She can no more resist it than she can stop breathing.

She hated Regina for using it, for those brief, black moments before reason took over again. She hates the pull of it, the irresistible urge, the feeling that she is a puppet at the mercy of her master.

In Zelena’s hands, it’s a thousand times worse.

“You know I’d _bring_ you some tea if you just asked,” Emma growls, even as she waves her hand and a steaming cup appears on the table in front of the Wicked Witch.

Zelena’s smile is indulgent. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Emma grits her teeth. But even this, the tea, the casual taunts, is a welcome reprieve from the rest. Magic comes easily to the Dark One, but there is always a price. Emma remembers how it was before: the warmth and the light, filling her up inside and chasing away her fears. Magic was wild and exhilarating, like liquid freedom running through her veins.

It feels very different now. Now, the fire burns rather than warms, and the freedom is no longer hers. Afterwards, it leaves her cold and wanting, until she calls it back, just a little to dull the ache. She feels weak without it, naked, helpless.

She thinks that it used to be different. Her strength used to come from within. But she can’t remember how it felt, before the darkness took over, before it was the only thing she could turn to.

She can’t remember.

 

*  *  *

 

She remembers some things. The darkness that took her, the glittering court of Camelot where she’d danced and forgotten for a brief moment, the sorcerer who’d tried to guide her. Strong arms around her, a hand in hers, anchoring her in the darkness that wanted to claim her. Her son, nervous before his first ball. Her parents, kind and concerned and loving.

The blade that tore them all apart.

She sees it almost every day. Zelena likes to toy with it, turning it so it catches the light between glimpses of Emma’s own face, caught behind the jagged letters that spell her name.

She remembers some things. She cannot remember the end.

Zelena withholds it from her, with falsely sympathetic smiles and vague hints. “You’re really better off not knowing. Memories are such pesky things. Remember how happy you were in New York?”

Emma grits her teeth. It isn’t a fond memory, not anymore, not in hindsight. Not now that she knows what she almost gave up for it. “I’m not happy now.”

A shadow settles onto the witch’s face, like she’s genuinely offended that Emma doesn’t enjoy being under her control. “You can thank my sister for that. It’s her fault you’re here, after all.”

In a roundabout way, Emma supposes, she is right. And Zelena always seems to think in roundabout ways. Trying to keep up with her shifts in mood and jumps in thought is exhausting, but Emma tries, tries to see the shapes in between, tries to glean hints of what she really means. What she knows.

What happened.

She remembers flinging Regina across the room, the panic in Robin’s voice, the desperation in Killian’s, the gloating in Zelena’s. She remembers her father standing side by side with Killian, swords drawn. She remembers the panic clouding her mind and seizing up her chest as she faced them, the desperate hope that they would stop her…

And nothing. She has retraced it to that point a hundred times, and it is torture to relive it, but the ending is worse. She doesn’t _know_.

But the aching, hollow feeling in her chest is a hint, and she tortures herself further by imagining what she might have done to them.

 

*  *  *

 

Her parents’ castle is strange and familiar at once, full of echoing halls and poky corners and little rooms. At Zelena’s command, Emma transforms it into a castle fit for a queen. Or rather, Zelena’s idea of a castle fit for a queen.

Emma is no expert, but she notes the way that the decor doesn’t quite fit – the too-big chandeliers, the overabundance of jewels and gold that tilts the balance from opulent to gaudy, the mismatched but expensive furniture. It reminds her of Regina’s style, but on steroids, with none of the trademark tasteful restraint.

She knows better than to point it out.

With the Dark One and an ever-expanding army of flying monkeys at her command, Zelena’s hold over the castle and village quickly expands to the lands around it. The people line up to profess their adoration for their queen, fall to their knees to kiss the ground she walks on, beg to be allowed to pay homage to her.

There’s always one who doesn’t quite live up to Zelena’s expectations. Every time, Emma hopes beyond hope that she might be allowed to show mercy, and every time, her hopes drown in the screams of her victim as she grants them a lesson from their queen instead. They thank her for it, afterwards, bloodied and twisted and desperate, and Emma has never hated someone as violently and as blindly as she hates Zelena now.

Her gut clenches as she watches fathers embracing their children, lovers clinging to each other, mothers hugging their babies close. Every day, she relives her own memories. Every day, they lead her to the same sudden, dead end.

And every night, she sits in her cage while Zelena sleeps, the pleas and screams of the people of the Enchanted Forest – her parents’ people, _her_ people – echoing in her head, the darkness wrapping around her, the truth of what she did to her family as far from her grasp as ever.

 

*  *  *

 

It was her own memory spell, Zelena informs her one day. “Genius, isn’t it? I thought, why get your hands dirty when you have the Dark One at your beck and call. You did a much better job with it than I could have.”

And Emma realises that as long as she cares, she will never find out. Zelena lives for having the things that other people want.

She remembers a foster home she stayed in when she was ten or eleven. The woman was volatile, punishing every slight, whether imagined or real. Emma was a quick learner. It wasn’t all that hard to hide your emotions and paste on a smile, not when your dinner depended on it.

She nods at Zelena. “Thanks.”

It’s difficult to pretend not to care about the thing that’s weighing on her mind all day, every day, but Emma is good, and Zelena is not very patient. When her comments fail to get a reaction, her face begins to twist into a familiar sneer, and Emma knows that she’s won.

“You want me to believe,” Zelena demands, “that you don’t care about what happened? What you did?”

Emma shrugs. “Does it matter? I’m never going to find out, so I don’t see the point in getting upset about it.”

Zelena’s eyes narrow. “We’ll see about that.”

She produces a dreamcatcher, and it takes everything Emma has to wait until she gives the command before drawing the memories from it.

When she does, she feels the floor drop out from under her. The whole world tilts around her. Her voice is a horrified whisper. “No.”

“Ah,” Zelena says, her face lighting up in delight. “So you _do_ care.”

Emma doesn’t reply. She remembers.

Her father, standing side by side with Killian, swords drawn as she faced them. Their shock as she snapped her fingers and their weapons clattered to the ground several feet behind her. Her mother’s scream as she flung her father out of the way and reached for Killian, into his chest...

And his desperate plea, suddenly cut off as she crushed his heart into dust.

She can’t remember much beyond that, through the haze of pain and terror and heartache. She vaguely remembers making a potion and drinking it at Zelena’s command, but she doesn’t remember leaving Camelot or arriving here, only murky images and brief flashes of emotion.

It doesn’t matter. She knows enough.

“No,” she says again, as if the word can somehow ward off the memory of what she did. “No.”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Zelena says, her eyes gleaming. “And now I can finally thank you for it. He had his uses, I’ll admit, but all the trouble he caused really wasn’t worth it.”

“Shut up.”

“Good riddance, that’s what I say,” Zelena continues cheerfully. “Now, come on. We have another visit to make.”

Emma cannot refuse. The people stare at her, and Emma knows that she must be quite a sight: the Dark One, tears running down her face, a woman whose heart has just been shattered. She has lost the man she loves. No; she has _killed_ the man she loves.

She can’t remember, did not see, what happened to the others.

She is almost relieved when Zelena calls for a lesson in obedience. Her victim’s agony distracts her from her own, just a little.

But that night, when Zelena leaves her alone, the world collapses around her and she weeps until she runs out of tears.

Her knowledge is still only partial, her family’s fate unknown. It’s the worst of both worlds, caught between the pain of losing Killian and the agony of not knowing what she did to everyone else. She can’t think straight. The only thing she knows is that Zelena made her kill. How often, and whom, she still doesn’t know.

There is no way, Emma discovers, to deal with something like this. She cannot even feel all of the loss and the grief that she knows is there; there’s too much of it. Her heart can only take so much, and even that, she cannot process. Without the pull of the dagger, Emma knows, she would collapse and not get up again for a very long time.

The suffering of the Enchanted Forest and its people is a small distraction. The land is in thrall, forced to love the queen who terrorises them, who takes their heirlooms and imprisons their children. The only one who is genuinely happy is Zelena; she’s glowing, her stomach beginning to swell a little. Emma cannot help but feel sorry for the child who will grow up like this, a prince or a princess of this twisted realm.

She tries to think of strategies, but no Dark One has ever broken the hold of their master by themselves, and if she follows a train of thought for too long it inevitably leads to Killian.

The man she loved. The man she killed.

Zelena takes delight in reminding him of her, humming sea shanties, or _accidentally_ mentioning him, or asking her outright if she isn’t sorry that she killed him.

She makes Emma take a widow’s wedding ring, right off the terrified woman’s finger. Zelena rolls it between her fingers, singing as if absent-minded. “Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me...”

It would be ridiculous, the Wicked Witch of the West singing pirate songs, if it didn’t freeze Emma’s heart in her chest.

She sings again when she sits in her castle in the evening, Emma like a trained dog on the floor. It’s a slower song, almost mournful, about a man and his love for the sea and the woman who lured him away from it, to death and regret.

Emma listens, and Emma fights, but she can’t hold back the tears

When Zelena reminisces about the time Emma almost married a flying monkey, Emma makes a lunge for her, and only a quick step back and a wave of the dagger save the witch.

“You really should get over it,” she says, looking a little put out. “He was just a pirate. Not even a very good one, let’s be honest.”

“You shouldn’t have killed him,” Emma says, and for the first time since she got her memories back, she feels something other than the numbness of grief: anger, raging inside her like a furnace.

“You’re the one who killed him,” Zelena reminds her. “I just _let_ you.”

“ _Made_ me,” Emma grits out, but the grief is already settling back over her like a blanket, pounding in her heart: _no, no, no_.

Zelena waves a hand. “Details.”

 

*  *  *

 

Emma knows what it is to be locked up. She knows what it is to have her fate decided by others, to be caught and trapped with no way out. But always, before, she was still in control of her own body. In prison, she could rebel in dozens of tiny ways, walk just a little out of line, remind herself that she was still herself.

Not so this time. She’s caught, completely and utterly. There is no way out.

She will spend the rest of her life in invisible chains, carrying out Zelena’s will, stealing and enslaving and torturing and breaking hearts. She will spend the rest of her life grieving and unable to grieve, her emotions always curbed by the dark impulses of the dagger.

She wants to give up. She just wants it to stop. But the dagger’s hold on her is absolute, whispering in the dark. They belong together. She belongs to it.

And when you belong to the darkness, there is no room for love.

It does not help to remember that she might not have any love left. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know.

And her thoughts spiral, and her tears replenish and flow, and her heart just keeps breaking.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma has no concept of time anymore, but one day makes her take note. One day, there is a riot.

“A riot?” Zelena repeats, staring at the unfortunate guard who has relayed the news. “My people are _rioting_?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the guard says. He’s young, dark-haired and baby-faced, and he looks terrified. “We’re holding the gates, but—”

“I’ll sort them out,” Zelena snaps, a dark promise in her voice. “Come along, _Dark One_.”

Something moves at the corner of Emma’s eye, something big and purple and billowing. “ _So_ sorry,” says the voice of Regina Mills, and the purple smoke clears away to reveal the former Evil Queen, dressed a peasant’s dress, smiling a very fake smile. “I’m afraid that’s my fault.”

“You!” Zelena’s rage would be comical if it weren’t so damned dangerous, Emma thinks. “What are you doing here?”

Regina’s eyes slide to Emma. “Helping.”

Zelena huffs out a laugh. “You’re out of your depth, sis.”

“I know.” Regina smiles again. “That’s why I brought backup.”

The guard has positioned himself at Zelena’s side, ready to protect his queen. He moves suddenly — but not towards Regina. Instead, his hand shoots out and grabs Zelena’s wrist. In a practiced movement, he twists it, eliciting a gasp of pain—

And the dagger. It falls to the ground with a metallic clatter, mixing with Zelena’s shriek of rage. Green light flares, and the guard staggers back, hitting the floor. He looks rather different now, taller and broader across the shoulders, and with a start, Emma recognises the rugged features of Robin Hood.

The room explodes into chaos.

Some of Zelena’s flying monkeys swoop in through the open windows, and Zelena is yelling for more guards as she faces her sister. She knocks Emma back with a burst of magic, even though Emma has not had a chance to move yet, sending her sprawling to the ground.

Two guards come running into the room, but they barely have time to take stock of the situation before a fair-haired man, dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, barrels into them from behind. Emma’s heart leaps.

_Dad._

David knocks one of the guards over and sends the other one stumbling towards another man, this one clad all in black, who is following behind. There’s a brief scuffle and that guard, too, falls over.

Then there’s a glint of curved metal, a shouted “Careful, mate!”, and a gunshot takes out a monkey in a burst of flame.

Emma’s world is falling away from her again as she stares across the room, at the familiar black hair and stubble-covered cheeks and blazing blue eyes. He _can’t_ be here. It’s not possible.

But there’s no question that the man brandishing a silver hook and a pirate’s pistol and yelling in old-fashioned English is Killian Jones, apparently once again proving his knack for doing the impossible.

“Emma!” her father yells, and dodges another monkey before skidding to a stop and falling to his knees beside her. “You okay?”

For a moment, she can’t speak, because her father is _here_ , with her, and Regina has the dagger, and Killian Jones is cursing about _bloody_ flying monkeys, and she is not alone anymore.

She manages a nod for David, but something inside her seems to crumple, and she all but falls into him.

He wraps an arm around her, and she can feel the vibration in his chest when he calls for Regina and Robin.

“We’ve got Zelena,” Regina’s voice comes back from somewhere. “Everything okay?”

Emma looks over, still half-convinced that this is just another game, or maybe she’s finally gone insane and started hallucinating. Regina is holding the dagger, watching cautiously as Robin ties Zelena’s hands behind her back. Killian is chasing after the retreating monkeys, taking a few threatening steps towards a straggler before it gives in and disappears.

He turns.

“I _hate_ those bloody things.” His eyes latch onto her. “You all right there, Swan?”

Zelena screams, an incoherent sound of frustrated rage.

And for the first time in weeks, Emma feels her face break into a wide smile.

Killian’s brow furrows, and he’s beside her in an instant, pistol tucked away as he puts his hand on her shoulder. “Love?”

“Emma, you okay?” David echoes the pirate’s concern.

There are warm tears coursing down Emma’s face and she can’t seem to stop them, even as she tells herself that she has no reason to cry now. She smiles past the tears, not caring, because Killian is alive and they’re all _here_ and she won’t have to hurt anyone today.

She didn’t hurt her family. She doesn’t have to hurt anyone anymore.

“I think she’s in shock, mate,” Killian says. “We’d best get out of here before those cursed simians make a return.”

“Why can’t you just call them monkeys?” David asks as he lifts Emma to her feet.

“Because I’ve not yet been able to ascertain whether they are in fact monkeys, or apes,” Killian shoots back.

And Emma laughs. She leans her head back and stumbles into her father’s side and she laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

*  *  *

 

It takes hardly any time to secure the castle now that Zelena is no longer a threat. Within the hour, the witch is locked securely in the dungeon, and the castle is once again Snow’s.

And Regina returns the dagger to her.

Emma holds it in her hand, hearing it call to her. It no longer tempts her; she can still feel the rush of power, but she has no taste for it left. The memory of crushing Killian’s heart is fake, but fake memories feel exactly like real ones. She remembers. She always will. And next to that, any taste of power pales to utter insignificance.

Killian offers her the box holding the Promethean flame, and pulls Excalibur from the extra scabbard belted around his waist.

And standing at the great table in her mother’s war room, Emma finally reunites the broken blade.

She barely remembers how it happens, afterwards. The others tell her about the bright flash of light and the crumbling blade. All Emma feels in the moment is the darkness draining out of her, taking all of her strength with it. It leaves her weak and tired, feeling empty and full of a nameless heaviness at the same time. Her knees give out, and she braces herself against the table.

Arms support her from both side, strong and sure. A voice says something about bed, and more that Emma can’t make sense of. Hands lift her off the ground and she’s carried, her head tucked against a solid, broad chest, her father’s soothing voice somewhere above, and the world fades away.

 

*  *  *

 

When she wakes, she’s lying in a soft, four-poster bed, and the sun is streaming through a window, and her mother is sitting in an armchair nearby.

“Good morning,” she says, a bright smile on her face. “Well, afternoon, really. How do you feel?”

Emma blinks as the memories come flooding back. She almost can’t believe she’s not dreaming, but there’s no dark power coursing through her veins – and if there were, she reminds herself, she wouldn’t be able to dream at all.

And her heart, no longer in thrall to the darkness, is beating the truth in her chest.

 She’s free. Her family is here. Killian is alive.

The world is right again.

“How—” she starts, and clears her throat. “How long was I...?”

“Almost two days,” Snow says. “Regina gave you a potion to help you recover your strength. How do you feel?”

“Good,” she says, and can’t help smiling when she realises that she’s telling the truth. “Great. Amazing.”

Snow’s smile grows wider. “Welcome home, Emma.”

Emma lunges off the bed and pulls her mother into a hug.

 

*  *  *

 

She finds Killian in the library, of all places. He’s seated behind a big oaken desk, frowning into a huge ledger, a quill in his hand and his hook holding down the page. His hair is sticking straight up at the front from where he’s been running his fingers through it, and he’s discarded his usual coat and vest, only wearing a black shirt with wide, billowing sleeves. It makes for an oddly domestic picture, albeit one from a period drama rather than anything Emma is used to, and she takes a moment to just look at him.

It’s not a long moment. He notices her almost immediately, eyes flicking up to look at her through dark lashes, head still bent over the ledger. His mouth curls into a smile.

“Swan,” he says, putting the quill down and leaning back. He looks even more at home like that, lounging in the chair as if it’s his. His feet are nowhere in sight, but somehow he still gives the impression of having them propped up on the desk. “How do you feel?”

Her throat is a little dry. She swallows. “I, uhm. I’m fine.” She gestures at the desk, her movements a little jerky as she tries to dispel the tension suddenly thrumming inside her. “What are you doing?”

“Your father tasked me with taking a look at the books,” he says. “Zelena neglected them rather woefully.”

She’s been trying not to think about that. He doesn’t know what happened. He doesn’t know that she now has two memories of his death. They haven’t really talked about the first time, or her stint as the Dark One, or Zelena’s betrayal, or anything. And they need to, she knows that.

The trouble is, she doesn’t seem to have words for any of it.

And he’s looking at her with those blue eyes of his, smiling and relaxed and _alive_ , all his attention on her as if she’s the centre of the whole world. As if, after everything, he’s happy to just look at her, free of the darkness and alive and well.

More than anything, he looks like he’s home.

Emma’s legs move of their own accord. Killian’s eyes widen a little as she crosses over to him and leans down and across him. It’s an awkward angle for a kiss, but Emma doesn’t care. His lips are soft, and warm, and he doesn’t hesitate before kissing her back. He reaches an arm around her and she braces her hands on his shoulders. Within moments, they’re shaking, and her breath is coming faster, and she’s not sure how she’s still standing, but she can’t stop.

She’s free. There’s not so much as a whisper of darkness inside of her, just an echo of temptation and memories that she doesn’t want to dwell on. But she doesn’t have to dwell on them right now. She doesn’t have to do anything. There’s no pull of command, no one except herself ordering her muscles and magic around.

Killian pulls away a little, laughing as he shifts in the chair. “Perhaps we should—”

She slides onto his lap, straddling his hips and silencing his suggestion with another kiss.

“Or that,” he breathes, his voice low and husky. His hook presses into the curve of her back, and his hand tangles in her hair, every touch gentle and reverent.

“That work for you?” Emma asks, breathless, running her hand over his chest. His shirt makes it easy, half of the buttons open as usual to reveal a generous expanse of skin.

His smile is sinful, a lop-sided, roguish grin that holds all kinds of promises. His eyes are dark as they meet hers. “Oh, aye.”

Emma smiles back, and then she gives into temptation and bends her head to kiss a line along his collarbone and up along his neck. His sharp intake of breath is followed by a strangled groan and he slides his other arm around her, too, pulling her closer.

A little while later, she’s sitting on the desk, ledger shoved out of the way and quill somewhere on the floor, with Killian pressed up between her legs. He trails kisses from her mouth along her jaw and down to her neck, his breath hot on her skin, his lips warm and wet and perfect. A whimper escapes her, turning into a soft moan as Killian nips at the sensitive skin under her ear. She has her arms around him, her hands bunching in the fabric of his shirt, but she can’t get close enough. He’s alive, and she’s free, and they’re here, and she wants _more_. She wants to lose herself in him, until she forgets that she ever thought him lost at all.

Killian runs his hand up her leg, rumpling her dress even more than it already is, and she arches further into him.

“Emma,” he murmurs against her neck. “Emma, love.”

“Mhmm...”

He sighs heavily, and presses one last kiss to her neck before pulling away. “Is everything all right? Truly?”

He’s breathing hard, and she can feel his pulse jumping under her hands. His cheeks are tinged pink, and his hair is even messier than it was, courtesy of her hands running through it.

And somehow, it’s easy to tell him now, in the small safe space between them, anchored by each other’s arms. “I thought you were dead.” She shakes her head before he can ask, his brows furrowing already. “Zelena, she made me cast a spell. A memory spell. She made me think that...”

Something like a hiccup makes its way up her throat, and she swallows. “I thought I’d killed you. I thought she’d made me kill you.”

For a moment, he just stares at her. Then he pulls her against him, wrapping his arms around her, and she can feel him press a kiss into her hair.

He says nothing about being survivor, this time. He says nothing at all. He just holds her close, and she hears him breathe and she feels his heart beat and she _knows_.

He’s home.

 

 *  *  *

 

Later, when Emma has had dinner in the great hall for the first time while Henry talks excitedly about the castle and the kingdom and their efforts to restore both, she tells her parents and Regina about her captivity while Killian and Robin take out a pack of cards and teach Henry all manner of tricks that he probably shouldn’t know. There are more hugs, and a few more tears, and even Regina looks genuinely upset on her behalf.

Emma’s eyes keep drifting to Killian, as if he might disappear if she looks away for too long. She keeps reaching for him, finding excuses to touch his shoulder, or nudge her elbow into his ribs, or wipe a stray hair off his brow. She’s still not sure how long Zelena’s reign lasted, how many nights she spent in pain and tears and regret, but the echo of it still hangs over her. She wants nothing more than to chase it away.

_This is now_ , she reminds herself. _This is real._

When night is falling, and the castle’s hallways are lit only with the softly flickering light of torches, Emma tangles her fingers with Killian’s and leads him to her room. He tugs lightly at her hand when they reach her door, and steps closer to her.

“A favour, my lady?” he asks, his voice low, his eyes bright. She’s noticed that he’s playing up the courtly behaviour, here in the castle where she should have grown up a princess. She’s not sure if it’s just the surroundings bringing back old habits, or if it’s for her sake, but either way, she’s not complaining.

“Yes?” she asks.

He tilts his head, looking at her through his lashes, a smile lurking on his lips. “Allow me to kiss you good night.”

“Mhmm.” She sways forward, reaching up with both hands, one on each shoulder. She brushes a kiss over his lips, but tilts her head back a little, touching her forehead against his. “Only if you kiss me good morning, too.”

She can see it in his eyes that he gets her meaning, and she already knows his answer. Pushing the door open, she pulls him into her bedroom – a bedroom fit for a princess, with a proper door and thick walls and a bed that’s far too big for one woman.

For a moment, they just stand there, looking at each other. And it’s like something breaks, or maybe it finally heals; something shifts between them, and Emma can’t tell who moves first, but then Killian’s lips are on hers and it doesn’t matter.

They move together, across the room and to the bed, and leave everything else behind.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma freezes the first time she hears him sing, the words and tune familiar at first. It’s a slow song, almost mournful, about a man and his love for the sea and the woman who lured him away from it.

But Killian’s voice is deep, and warm, and the ending Emma dreads does not come. There is no death, no regret. There is hope, and a new home, and love, love, love.

They’re home.


End file.
